


Dead Again

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-19
Updated: 2000-01-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A look at how Meg felt about Freaser's two 'deaths' (in DMDTR and ATQH).





	Dead Again

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Dead *Again*???  
  


# Dead *Again*???

  
by Chastity,  
  
Warnings: Character death, angst  
  
Pairings: Fraser/Thatcher  
  
Spoilers: Minor for both Dead Men Don't Throw Rice and All the Queen's  
Horses.  
  
Rated: PG  
  
I don't know, maybe it's just me, but after re-watching 'Dead Men Don't  
Throw Rice' I can't help feeling that it's just a liiiiiiittle bit weird  
how Fraser seems never to appraise Thatcher, his commanding officer,  
of his activities. I mean, watching the funeral scene, it struck me  
that this would be the second time Fraser had 'come back from the dead'  
without a word of explanation to Meg - the first being, of course, in  
'All the Queen's Horses' after he's fallen off the train. So this is  
my attempt at getting inside Meg's head and seeing how she feels about  
this...  
  
All the rest of the required stuff, as well as some notes I feel are  
necessary, will follow the story.  
  
***  
  
It's raining again, Fraser, or rather still. Hasn't stopped since...  
well, it hasn't stopped for well over a week. I don't remember having  
seen this much rain for a very long time, if ever - perhaps not even  
when I was posted in B.C. In Victoria, it rains a lot... Oh, I'm sorry,  
Ben, I didn't mean to bring her up, even indirectly. Let's just forget  
I said anything and get back to the weather. That's always a safe topic  
for Canadians.  
  
Well, yes, it's been a week. It doesn't feel like so short a time.   
It feels as if it's been much, much longer. I suppose that's because  
I haven't been able to go back to the Consulate yet; I've been staying  
at home, so my days have been stretching out, yet I don't seem to be  
able to do anything constructive. Although I dread to think what I might  
find when I head back to the Consulate after leaving it in Turnbull's  
care for a week or more, I can't manage to force myself into it. My  
life has become rather apathetic lately. I just don't care anymore.  
  
Not that many people would think these circumstances any different than  
those I used to operate under. I know what both Rays used to call me;  
Vecchio the "Dragon Lady", Kowalski the "Ice Queen". Vecchio thought  
I breathed fire, while Kowalski thought I was made of ice. I can't really  
say either was entirely wrong. I know I hide my feelings far too much;  
I've always been too scared to reveal them, too uncertain of myself and  
of the others I think I know to let the truth out. Icy, indeed. And  
when I do let any feelings show, it's usually to snap out at someone  
for a minor mistake, expending in anger the emotion I've bottled up from  
everything else. Quite the fire-breather, aren't I. But that's something  
I'm trying to change. It's hard, fixing the patterns of an entire lifetime;  
but after the consequences of not revealing my feelings this time, I  
can't afford not to any more.  
  
This is the third time, isn't it, Fraser? The third time you've been  
dead, without any explanation. But this time, you're not coming back,  
are you? Not going to appear out of thin air and tell me that the fact  
you aren't dead 'isn't important'. Not going to pop up from out of your  
coffin and scare *me* half to death.  
  
Hmm... that wasn't supposed to be funny, yet it was. I think that's the  
first time I've fainted since well before I started training at Depot.  
I certainly gave the detective a piece of my mind for just letting me  
fall, spectacle though it must have been for him. I had a bruise on  
the back of my head and a splitting headache for a week - although I  
suppose I shouldn't be complaining to you, now should I.  
  
You know, this whole situation doesn't seem real, especially since I've  
been through this twice before. Exposure has dulled my reactions. The  
first time, on the train, I was absolutely livid with you! I'd thought  
I killed you, knocking the man you were fighting off the train only to  
have you pulled down with him! I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid.  
I did grieve for you then, Fraser, and not at all briefly. I didn't  
understand in the least what might have been starting between us when  
we were handcuffed together. Then when I thought you were dead, I couldn't  
comprehend what I might have lost. And when you appeared - well, I did  
what I'd done best. I balled up all those conflicts roiling inside me  
and lashed out, covering the truth of what I was feeling. You never  
explained to me how you managed to survive that, not even after our...  
contact. And that hurt. Why didn't you ever tell me? Did you truly  
think it unimportant? Did you think I wouldn't care? You were wrong.  
  
I had all but forced myself to forget those feelings - until the next  
time you turned up dead, when they all came rushing back. That time,  
though, I wouldn't let myself believe you were really dead until I saw  
your body. I told myself that you were Benton Fraser, that there was  
no way you could be dead. But when I did see your body, it sent me into  
a state of shock. Numb. I couldn't feel anything but disbelief. And  
then, thank God, you woke up! I felt then - relief, then more shock  
\- then, of course, I fainted. And when I awoke, I was embarrassed -  
and you and the detective were nowhere to be seen! Well. I headed back  
to the Consulate, burning with all the emotions I felt, to simmer for  
a good half-hour. When you finally walked in, I was steaming, yet after  
I'd heard your explanation - convoluted, but it qualified - I couldn't  
manage to chew you out. Yet what kept you from telling me your plans  
in that case? Time limits? All it would have taken was a phone call  
from you or from someone at the Precinct. Simple forgetfulness? Perhaps  
with others, but with you? I don't think you've forgotten a thing in  
your life - except perhaps one or two 10989-b reports. It simply didn't  
seem to occur to you that I'd want to know - at least, that's how I see  
it.  
  
And now, once again, I'm the last person to know. I'm the last person  
anyone thought to tell. *Turnbull* heard before I did - dammit, I heard  
it *from* Turnbull! Again, I didn't believe it until I saw your body.  
Even then I had my doubts, but the autopsy report finally set those to  
rest. And then we laid you to rest. I made sure you were buried with  
the fullest honors possible, and here in Chicago. I hope I wasn't wrong  
to fight the force, who wanted you buried at home in Canada; but I know  
that your life was here so much more than there. It seemed more fitting.  
  
I miss you, Ben. It's too late now, but I wanted to apologize for the  
way I've treated you. I never knew how to treat someone I loved, like  
I loved you. That's the only excuse I have, and even it isn't enough.  
But I hope I can apologize sometime, in the future.  
  
~~~  
  
Meg rose from where she had been kneeling on the wet earth, brushing  
dirt from her knees absently. She leaned down to trace the letters on  
Ben's tombstone with her finger; it was a simple memorial, with his name,  
rank, and dates of birth and death, and the single other line of text  
emblazoned on it nearly hidden in the earth. She placed a small bouquet  
of fresh-cut daisies on the grave and walked out of the grounds, her  
head held high. Behind her, the daisies waved gently in a wind and a  
disembodied voice spoke the half-concealed words: "I miss you..."  
  
Meg turned around.  
  
The colour drained from her face until she was as white as the tundra.  
Her mouth opened, then closed wordlessly; her legs gave out on her, and  
she dropped to her knees on the muddy ground. "Fray... Fraser?" she  
stuttered finally, looking at the tombstone, then back to the man in  
front of her, then back to the tombstone again.  
  
"Hello, Inspector," Fraser's ghost said.  
  
Meg's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped backwards, unconscious.  
  
"Oh dear," said Fraser, twisting his Stetson in his hands. Fraser Sr.  
appeared beside his son, looking down on the prostrate Inspector.  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for, son?" he asked. "Wake her up and reassure  
her that you *are* dead!"  
  
Directing a bright blue glare at his father, Fraser knelt down beside  
Meg; his knees made no dent in the rivulets of mud, nor did his uniform  
pants get dirty (death being the ultimate answer to Scotch-guarding).  
"Inspector?" he said, trying to slap her cheek gently, only to have his  
hand pass right through it. "Oh my," he said. "Inspector," he called  
again, then louder, "Margaret!"  
  
She stirred and opened her eyes. They focussed immediately on Fraser  
and she sat up quickly. "Constable!" she said. "I thought you were..."  
she gestured at the tombstone, "dead. You *are* dead!"  
  
"Well, yes, I am," he replied.  
  
"Oh, that's good," she said without thinking, then did a quick double-take.  
"I mean... hold on. You're dead?" Fraser nodded in confirmation. Confused,  
Meg reacted in the way she was most used to; she snapped into 'command  
mode'. "An explanation would be appreciated, Constable," she said sharply,  
then drew back from the sound of her own voice. "Wait... um," she hesitated,  
remembering what she'd just finished saying at the grave of the man who  
was kneeling next to her. "Why... why can I see you?"  
  
Visions filled her head. 'Maybe I'm dead too. Maybe I drank too much  
of Turnbull's coffee and it finally killed me. Maybe Fraser is just  
here to hand in that 10989-b report and make sure that his files are  
in order before I send them to Ottawa.'  
  
"Well, sir," Fraser said, scratching at his forehead with the back of  
his thumb, "it's rather a complicated story, and you might wish to,"  
he gestured at the mud, "go somewhere more comfortable."  
  
"Oh, smooth move, son," said Fraser Sr., "how come you couldn't say something  
like that while you were alive? Ruined any chance I have for grandkids,  
you did."  
  
"You can't have grandchildren anyway; you're dead!" Fraser hissed, turning  
away from Meg.  
  
"You say that as if it were a bad thing, son. Don't forget that I'm  
not the only dead one here," Fraser Sr. replied tartly.  
  
By this time Meg, ignorant of the ghostly exchange, had taken stock of  
her surroundings. "Yes," she agreed, "perhaps my apartment would be  
a better place to talk." She stood up shakily, exposing a large smear  
of mud down the back of her rain slicker. Gesturing towards the cemetery  
gates, she said, "My car is out there... do you need a ride?"  
  
"Ah... yes," Fraser said. Although he could materialise in Meg's apartment  
just by concentrating on her location, he thought it best not to frighten  
her any more than necessary. As they walked together towards the car,  
however, he was wondering how he was going to manage getting into the  
car without her seeing him sliding *through* the door...  
  
That dilemma was solved when she stripped her muddy slicker off and popped  
the trunk to put it in. He quickly moved into the passenger seat and  
was waiting for her when she got in.  
  
The drive to her apartment was silent, Fraser trying to think of a good  
explanation when he himself hadn't been completely sure that Meg would  
be able to see him, and Meg trying not to let the fact that she was sitting  
next to a self-admitted dead man affect her driving. They made it all  
the way into her apartment without another word. Meg closed the door,  
dropped her purse on the side table, kicked her shoes in the general  
direction of the closet, and sat down on her sofa.  
  
"OK," she said, drawing a deep breath, "talk."  
  
Fraser sat down in the armchair across from her, leaning forward with  
his arms on his knees. "It seems to be a family trait - the ability  
to appear after death, I mean, Inspector."  
  
Meg narrowed her eyes. "Do you mean you used to see dead people?" 'No  
wonder he used to talk to himself...;' Another thought occurred to her.  
"How come I can see you now, but I couldn't see... the other people you  
could talk to?"  
  
"It was my father who used to appear to me, and apparently only family  
members could see him - Constable Maggie MacKenzie, for example, was  
able to see him when she was here. However, he was also able to appear  
to Buck Frobisher, although it took a conscious effort. He usually appeared  
to me when I was thinking about him - reading his case files or the like  
\- although he had an annoying habit of turning up exactly when I *didn't*  
want him to. He kept an office in my closet at the new Consulate."  
  
"What on earth did a dead man do with an office?" Meg asked, curious.  
  
"Taxes, he said, sir," Fraser answered.  
  
"Look, Fraser," Meg said, "Technically, you're no longer under my command  
\- please, don't call me 'sir' anymore."  
  
"Of course, si - ah, Margaret," Fraser said nervously.  
  
"Oh, come on, son, you're dead, what do you think she's going to do to  
you?" Fraser Sr. was suddenly sitting on the couch beside Meg.  
  
Exasperated, Fraser snapped, "Go *away*!"  
  
"What?" Meg said.  
  
"No, not you... my father has decided to put in an appearance," Fraser  
explained.  
  
Meg blinked. Two dead Frasers in her apartment? This was a bit much.  
"Would you ask him to, um..." She made shooing motions with her hands.  
  
"I have asked him," Fraser said in annoyance, "He just doesn't seem willing  
to listen."  
  
"Well!" Fraser Sr. huffed, "I know when I'm not wanted!" He disappeared.  
  
"He's gone," Fraser said, relieved.  
  
"Good," Meg said. "It's a little unsettling not to be able to see the  
people in the room with me." Pausing, she thought over what Fraser had  
told her so far. "You said that your father appeared to you when you  
thought about him?" Fraser nodded. "Is that... why you were at the  
cemetery? Because I was thinking about you?" Another silent nod. She  
gulped. "Did you hear everything I said?" she asked worriedly. It wasn't  
that she hadn't meant what she'd said, only that she hadn't actually  
expected it to be heard.  
  
"Yes," Fraser confirmed, "everything." He hesitated. "I'm sorry, M-Margaret,  
that I've hurt you so much. I never meant you to think that your feelings  
meant nothing to me, for they did - they do, or I wouldn't be here now.  
I think that, underneath the tough exterior you project, you are a very  
sweet person, and I think that anyone who knows you could tell you that.  
I'm sorry that you feel guilty over how you treated me, for I never gave  
it a second thought." He wavered for a moment, then said quickly, "And...  
Meg... I'm very sorry that I never told you I loved you... while I was  
alive."  
  
***  
  
The next morning, the sun was peeking out from behind the cloud cover  
for the first time in over a week. Turnbull was pleased to see Inspector  
Thatcher walk into the Consulate at seven a.m. as if she had never been  
gone. She took the time to greet him nicely, leaving him staring slack-jawed  
after her, and walked into her office. She slipped her shoes off under  
her desk and shrugged out of her coat, carrying it to her closet. She  
looked around furtively, then opened the door and slipped inside.  
  
"How are you doing, Ben?" she asked.  
  
"Your closet makes a wonderful home base, Meg," he replied from behind  
an oakwood desk. "I was thinking about having my parents over for dinner  
tonight, in fact."  
  
"Do you still eat?" Meg asked, confused.  
  
"Well, no, but I thought it would be a nice touch," Fraser admitted.  
  
"Well," Meg smiled, "while I have you here where I can keep an eye on  
you... I believe you have a few overdue 10989-b reports you could work  
on?"  
  
***  
  
Well, as I said, this story was originally going to be a look at how  
Meg felt about Ben's two 'deaths'. I never had a third one in mind until  
I actually started the thing. I'm not sure exactly what I wanted to,  
or managed to, evoke - but I like the results. I hope you do too. I  
was originally going to end it before Ben's ghost even entered the picture,  
but got urged for a sequel.  
  
Disclaimer: Alliance's. Not mine. Not dead, although it was fun while  
it lasted.  
  
Thanks: Thanks to KL for being the first to read this - even though  
it *was* one in the morning when it was finished.... Thanks also to  
the RSY list for feedback and sequel requests. :)  
  
Any questions, feedback, archival requests?   
Please do remember that this is my first attempt at any kind of character  
death, at angst, and at an interior monologue. Constructive criticism  
is very welcome, while flames will be used to make a campfire on which  
I shall proceed to cook spaghetti.  
P.S. This story has appeared in part on my personal website, which I  
ran under the nickname of Meg Fraser. Therefore, you may have already  
read part of this story under another name. Please rest assured that  
it has *not* been plagarised. :) TYK!  
  
Return to Hexwood  
  
  
  
  
  



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